


Beyond Loss

by pieandangels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandangels/pseuds/pieandangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TW: abuse</p><p>AU. Six weeks after John's death, Dean finds Sam looking at a website designed to help people deal with loss through literature. After exploring the website, Dean finds himself drawn to its mysterious creator, Castiel Milton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester hated mornings. He hated the thin yellow beams of sunlight that insisted on creeping across his face, pulling him into another hellish day worrying about how he was going to put dinner on the table. Resigning himself to the fact that he had to work whether he liked it or not, Dean rolled out of bed and grabbed his fraying grey robe. He shuffled into the kitchen to find Sam leaning over his laptop – one of their few luxuries. Tongue between his teeth, Sam was hunched forward, his long nose inches from the screen as he read. Dean poured himself a mug of coffee and turned to his brother.  
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?” Dean asked, fighting a yawn.  
Sam didn’t answer. Taking a sip of coffee, Dean walked around the table and leaned over his brother’s shoulder. Sam was on a website with a pale blue background, headed with simple black lettering. Dean read: Literature Beyond Loss: Books Understand What People Can’t.  
“What’s this?” Dean asked. He watched Sam fidget for a moment.  
“Um. It’s a blog. People post about books that helped them get through, um, rough times.” Sam closed his laptop and pushed his brown mop of hair off his forehead.  
“Why?”  
“I don’t know. Someone told me about it after Dad…anyway, I’ve followed it since. The guy who runs it is really interesting. He knows a lot about religion and literature, and he really helps people.”  
“Sounds like a load of horse crap to me,” Dean answered. He put the mug down and went to shower, trying to ignore the shame welling in his chest. He knew their father’s death had hurt Sam much more than it had hurt Dean. Sam didn’t breathe a sigh of relief when the coroner pronounced John dead.  
Then again, Sam had never known just how wrathful John could get; Dean made sure of that. Locked safely in the bathroom, he stripped of his clothes and looked at himself in the mirror. It’d been six long weeks since they buried John. He smelled like alcohol, even in death. There were still marks all over Dean, cuts and bruises and scars. All of it done by his beloved father.  
Dean showered quickly, ignoring the dull ache that seemed to permanently reside in his shoulders. He pulled on clean jeans, a navy crewneck, and his favorite forest green jacket. Yelling for Sam to hurry, Dean walked outside to wait by the car. It was the only other amenity the Winchester brother’s enjoyed, a 1967 black Chevy Impala. It was a hand-me-down from John, but Dean had been in charge of upkeep since he could hold a wrench. Sam trudged out of the house, blinking against the bright morning.  
“Dean?” Sam asked as soon as the door was shut.  
“Hmm?” Dean grunted, looking over his shoulder as he backed the Impala out of the lot.  
“Are you mad at me?”  
Dean glanced at his little brother, at the worry wrinkles around his hazel eyes. He hadn’t seen Sam so worried since the hospital, and it broke his heart to think being angry with Sam would cause the same damage as losing their father.  
“No,” he said quickly. He could explain, but he wasn’t interested in hugging it out. Sam folded his hands in his lap, and they were silent for the rest of the ten-minute drive. They pulled up in front of Lawrence High and Sam hesitated for a moment, hand on the door.  
“It’s not because of you,” he said.  
“What?” Dean asked.  
“The website. The support group. It’s not because you did anything wrong, Dean.”  
The knot in Dean’s stomach tightened. “Alright. Go inside or you’ll be late.”  
Sam nodded and exited the car, hitching his backpack over his shoulder. Dean watched him and, for a short moment, he was almost nostalgic. Just last year, he’d been one of those high school kids, laughing with his friends and hitting on girls. Things had been good until John saw Dean walking with Aaron Bass. Once he put two and two together, he started beating Dean. He wasn’t having a fairy for a son.  
Sam knew none of it, and Dean intended to keep it that way. It was easier for Dean to fight his urges, stick with girls, pretend everything was normal inside him. There wasn’t a burning desire to be open and honest. Openness and honesty got you hit; that was what Dean learned. Better to be a good little soldier. After all, he was nothing special, and he didn’t deserve special treatment for it. He didn’t get to go online and whine about his problems.  
It was a slow day at Singer’s Salvage Yard, and Dean knew he wasn’t really needed. He was grateful that Bobby didn’t send him home, though. He needed the money, but he also needed the work. He wasn’t sure where his life was going, how he was going to continue supporting Sam, and that’s why he liked working on cars. They made sense. They were simple, easy, and understandable. The same parts in the same places every time, no misinterpretations, no fear of retribution. Cars either worked or they didn’t. There was no in-between, no grey area. His current project was a powder blue Porsche. All the parts were lying around him, clean and ready to make the engine run smoothly. As smoothly as things used to be. At 3, Dean crawled out from beneath the Porsche. He wiped the grease from his palms, the sweat from his forehead, and walked into Bobby’s office.  
“I’m clocking out,” he said.  
“You worked straight through lunch again,” Bobby said, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper.  
Dean shrugged. “I like that car.”  
“You and Sam come to dinner this weekend, alright? I don’t like you two boys being alone. You look like you could use a home-cooked meal.”  
Dean chuckled. “Alright, Chef. We’ll see you on Saturday.”  
Bobby’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile as Dean left the room, punched his time card, and got back into the Impala. Just enough time to run home for a quick shower before Sam was out of school.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stepped out of the shower, amazed at how pale his skin looked without the usual layer of dirt and grease he accumulated from working at Bobby’s. He pulled on his last clean jeans and made a quick mental note to drop by the Laundromat that weekend, then walked into the living room to grab his keys.  
He paused, eyeing Sam’s computer. He knew he shouldn’t. It was a violation of privacy, a violation of everything Dean swore never to do. He wouldn’t be that controlling, determined parent that John had been. He wouldn’t insert himself into parts of Sam’s life where he simply did not belong. And yet, something about that pale blue background was drawing him in. He still had ten minutes before he needed to leave to pick Sam up.  
Sitting at the table, Dean opened Sam’s computer. The website was still up, enticing blue background and all. Dean scrolled through a few posts, most of which seemed to be about _The Great Gatsby_. He clicked a link near the top that said, in simple typewriter font, “About.” There was no picture, just a small block of text. Dean read aloud:  
“Castiel Milton lives in Pontiac, Illinois. He is a graduate of University of Iowa with two degrees in Creative Writing and Religion, respectively. After suffering a tragic loss in his younger years, Castiel created this website with the hope of lessening the burden of those like him.”  
And that was all. No details, no explanations, just a few simple sentences. Frustrated, Dean clicked back to the home page of the blog and scrolled until he saw a post made by Castiel himself. It was a recommendation of _The Things They Carried_ by Tim O’Brien. Dean was pretty sure he was supposed to have read it during senior year, but he hadn’t cracked open a book in years. There were more important things for him to worry about. He had liked reading when he was younger, but after the beatings started, his only priority was making sure that Sammy never found out.  
Realizing he still had a few minutes left, Dean went into Sam’s room and scanned his bookcase until he found the novel he was looking for, a simple blue and black cover, so similar to the colors of the website. He opened the book and read the first few sentences, then closed it again. It was about war, that was all he remembered, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face that parallel. John had trained Dean to fight from a young age. There was no one more deserving of honor than those who could handle themselves in hand-to-hand combat, according to John Winchester. But Dean wasn’t so sure. After he met Aaron, he started to think that perhaps there was a force stronger than violence fueled by hatred, but John’s sharp words and unrelenting fists kept Dean from figuring out just what it was.  
Dean placed the book on his bedside table, then grabbed the keys to the Impala and headed to Sam’s school. He was a few minutes late, but Sam was intently talking with a pretty blonde girl, so Dean figured it wasn’t a big deal. Sam looked up, his face brightening when he saw Dean. It made Dean’s chest ache a little, knowing how rare that smile was now. When they were young, Sam always smiled. He couldn’t stop. But with John dead and with the pile of bills growing every day, that smile was faltering.  
“Bye, Jess!” Sam yelled to the blonde girl as he climbed into the Impala, throwing his backpack onto the floorboards.  
“Whose that?” Dean asked.  
Sam turned red, twisting his hands in his lap. “Her name’s Jessica Moore. She’s in my math class. She wants to apply to Stanford too.”  
Dean bit the inside of his cheek. He knew Stanford had been Sam’s dream for years, and he knew the kid was smart enough to get in, but the financial situation worried him. On some level, Dean was sure Sam knew, but they didn’t talk about it.  
“That’s great. At least you’ll know someone.”  
“Yeah. How was work?”  
Dean shrugged. “It was alright. I’m working on this Porsche, she’s a real beauty. Not as much character as my baby, but I like her.” Dean patted the dashboard of the Impala lovingly, and Sam snickered.  
“Did Bobby look okay?”  
“Yeah. We’re going over there for dinner on Saturday.”  
“Okay. That’s good. I think he’s been having a hard time since Dad – ”  
“I know. But he looks good, Sammy, he really does.” Dean was quiet for a moment. “Um, Sam?”  
“Hmm?”  
Dean tapped his thumb on the steering wheel a few times before speaking. “I, uh, I looked at that website. Do you, um, do you know anything about the guy who runs it?”  
“His name’s Castiel. He lives in Illinois.”  
“Yeah, I saw all that, but…I don’t know, don’t you think it’s sort of shady that there’s no personal details on such a personal site?”  
“No. I think he’s just more concerned with the well-being of others than himself. He reminds me of you sometimes.”  
Dean was quiet the rest of the ride home, but Sam noticed his brother’s hands loosen on the steering wheel, and he saw the slight upturn of Dean’s lips. The small, almost unnoticeable signs that he appreciated the compliment, even if he would never admit it.  
When they got home, Sam immediately went to his laptop.  
“Hey,” Dean interrupted. “Homework first.”  
“Hold on, I just want to check something,” Sam said; he began typing, fingers flying over the keyboard, his eyebrows pushing together to form a little crease. Dean walked over and pushed the laptop closed.  
“Homework first.”  
Sam glared at him. “I was in the middle of typing something.”  
“You were in the middle of not listening to me. It’ll still be there when you’re done doing math.”  
Rolling his eyes and pouting a little, Sam grabbed his backpack and went into his room, closing the door with a little too much force. Dean sighed and pulled a beer from the fridge, then went to his room. Collapsing on the bed, he thought about war. He’d never been in real combat. A few fistfights here and there when people threatened Sam for being a nerd, but nothing too serious. Picking up _The Things They Carried_ , Dean wondered vaguely why Castiel Milton seemed to have such a strong connection to a book about war. What tragedy could have drawn him to it? Knowing there was little chance he would ever find out, Dean took a long pull from the beer bottle, then relaxed against his pillows and began to read.


	3. Chapter 3

“Afterward, when the firing ended, they would blink and peek up. They would touch their bodies, feeling shame, then quickly hiding it. They would force themselves to stand. As if in slow motion, frame by frame, the world would take on the old logic – absolute silence, then the wind, then sunlight, then voices. It was the burden of being alive.” The Things They Carried, page 18.

The first time Dean kissed a boy, he was thirteen years old. His name was Alex, and he was two years older than Dean. It wasn’t Dean’s first kiss, nor was it the first time he felt attraction, but it was the certainly the first time he felt truly content with himself. He liked girls. His first crush was Jo Harvelle, back in sixth grade, but it had never been quite enough. Alex explained what bisexuality was, and then he kissed Dean.   
Nobody knew. Dean had kept it hidden because he knew what John would say. But he never suspected that things would get as bad as they did. It happened senior year, just a few weeks in. Dean had known Aaron for a while, and they’d always gotten along fairly well. Like Sam, Aaron was one of the few people who could match Dean’s quips, who smiled at his loud laugh. They dated in secret. One September afternoon, when the air was crisp, on the brink of rain, Aaron and Dean were walking across the front lawn of Lawrence High. Aaron’s hand was firm and comforting in Dean’s, and the smile on his face was endless. And then, suddenly, a yell loud enough to trigger rainfall. As the first few drops of the thunderstorm melted into Dean’s light brown hair, he turned and met his father’s dark eyes.  
John said nothing, but his scalding expression was enough for Dean. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and dropped Aaron’s hand. He didn’t say goodbye, but walked, eyes down, toward the Impala, steeling himself for the inevitable screaming that was about to crash over him. John didn’t say a word while they waited for Sam. He didn’t speak when his younger son got to the car, and Sam was smart enough not to ask about it. When they arrived back at home, John quietly asked Sam to go to his room, then rounded on his elder son.  
“Dad, I – ” Dean began.  
“Are you gay now?”  
“What?”  
“You used to date girls. You used to be normal. You’ve decided to be gay now?”  
Dean scratched the back of his head. “I didn’t decide anything.”  
“Hm,” John grunted. They sat in silence for a long moment, then John spoke again: “I don’t like it.”  
“You don’t have to.”  
“I’ll find a way to fix you.”  
“I’m not broken.”  
John stood and took a sharp step toward his eldest son. “There’s something screwy in your head. Only thing that would make you think like that.”  
“No, Dad.”  
“Don’t call me that. I’m not gonna be the father of some fag.”  
“Please don’t use that word.”  
“I’ll use whatever word I damn well please.” John took another step forward, dark eyes narrowing. “So what is this, huh? Some kind of rebellion?”  
“No,” Dean said, voice cracking. “It’s just me. I’m bisexual, Dad.”  
And then the world came crashing down. John’s palm was quick, smacking Dean so hard he tasted blood. Dean lost his footing and fell, knocking his head against the coffee table as he tumbled to the ground.  
“You are disgusting,” John said, crouching down so his face was level with Dean’s. “And you are not my son.”  
He left the room, and Dean felt a heavy shame welling in his abdomen. John had always been strict, certainly, but he had never laid a finger on either of them. So, Dean wondered, how could a simple act of attraction be enough to spark violence in John Winchester? What kind of parent would turn so violently on his child for something the child could not control?  
The answer was simple. No parent would do that. And so Dean sunk deep into himself, weighed down by the knowledge that he was wrong. Something in his chemistry was screwed up, and that was the reason John hit him. It was out of love, surely.  
Dinner was quiet. Sam stared at the bruise forming on Dean’s cheekbone but neither spoke of it. John polished off a bottle of whiskey and refused to meet Dean’s green gaze. Dean felt his pulse quicken when his father stood up, but no more fists fell on him that night. Just the impossible silence and the unbearable disappointment.  
That was how it began. Dean tried so desperately to come clean to his father and was met by daily beating. He always seemed to end up curled by John’s feet, and when his father left, Dean would peek out from behind his bruised eyelids and look at the world with wonder. The sky was the same pale blue it had always been, and the mockingbirds never stopped singing. And yet, the world Dean lived in now was so very different from the one he had been raised in. He’d had bruises before from his share of fights, but never like this. Never from his own flesh and blood.  
His teachers didn’t ask questions. They assumed that the troubled child had finally snapped, beating kids in alleyways to take their lunch money. No one asked, and so Dean kept his mouth shut. What was the use of telling? The best that could happen was John being taken away, but then Sam would be taken away too. As much as Dean hated what his father was doing, he understood it. Boys don’t like other boys. And he wasn’t going to sacrifice Sam just to get away from John.   
But the look in Aaron’s eyes when Dean ended their relationship haunted the eldest Winchester’s dreams. The hollowness, the shimmer of tears that did not fall. It was the kind of sadness that doesn’t seem real. And yet, there is was, plain on Aaron’s face. And there was nothing Dean could do but turn and walk away.


End file.
